Someone Nice
by Anachronism X
Summary: Cracking under pressure, Juice goes to blow off some steam with a working girl and a handful of pills. Not exactly a hooker with a heart of gold, Delilah reluctantly helps to pull everyone's favorite intelligence officer back from the edge. Picks up in S06E12.
1. Someone Nice

**Chapter 01:**  
_Someone Nice_

The start of this story picks up in S06E12, _'You Are My Sunshine'. _It obviously differs original episode in some ways, but the overall plot follows through. Warnings for language and drug use, rated **T** for subject matter throughout the story. Also, as a general disclaimer, I own nothing you recognize throughout the entirety of this fic – all SOA canon information and plot are property of Kurt Sutter. Only the original character Delilah is my intellectual property. This applies to all chapters of the on going work.

Enjoy!

* * *

There was no denying that it was a bad idea – even Juice knew that much.

He's sparked a joint with Bobby and acquiesced easily to the old man's demands that he find some way to unwind – drop a few painkillers and get some attention from one of the ladies down at Nero's club, he'd said – but following instructions to the letter had never been one of Juice's strong points. He knew Bobby could see the gears turning in his head from a mile away though, so he'd made little argument. He'd follow his orders closely enough.

He'd forgone the upper class club in favor of a more relaxed, familiar option – Delilah. She was a freelance girl who worked out of her apartment on the west end of town, started off on the streets before she'd moved into the world of 'legitimate' escort service under the cover of an in-home massage parlor. It was essentially the same as Nero's setup, minus the pimp or the overhead. A smart business plan, one had to admit, when they thought about it.

Either way, Juice knew her, and if he was going to pay anyone for their entertainment, it was almost always her. Safer to stick to somebody he was familiar with, and more comfortable, too. She was good looking, overly made up like a lot of the Croweaters, not plastic or unfathomably perfect like some of the girls around Diosa. Long dark hair, nice eyes, full lips, but she still looked like a real person.

It was a little easier to pretend that whatever happened between them was a legitimate hookup, given that she didn't look entirely unobtainable.

Truth be told, he just wasn't a huge fan of a lot of the girls who worked at Diosa. They were pretty, for sure; they came in every size, shape, and color, all of them drop dead gorgeous. But they were tied a little too close to the club, most of them able to spot a Brother from a mile away and always eager to service them, specifically. It was too much like bagging a Croweater and still having to fork over cash with those girls. A lot of the ones who weren't overly interested in the cut on his back seemed to have attitude, and his annoyance with uppity women always exceeded any desire he had to get off.

All he was looking for was a break – from the club, or from himself, maybe. The tight knots that bound those two concepts together kept them wound up so closely that he couldn't tell where they each ended and began, making it difficult to pinpoint which thing more rightfully deserved the pure hatred that had grown to fill him. If he could have destroyed one without doing so to the other, he couldn't honestly say which he'd choose.

It all came back to what he had done, the downhill momentum of every moment he could remember for what felt like such a long time.

It had all started with the business with Miles, the coke, and that fucking RICO case. He had the 'Men of Mayhem' patch to remind him of his part in that, as if he were capable of forgetting the blood that could never be washed from his hands. Life since that point had been little more than an endless parade of moments and situations that required more and more dirty work from him in order to make a satisfactory penance.

Handing over the evidence that sent Clay into lock up, the pretty blonde Jax had tasked him with disposing of, knowing he had to vote in favor of taking out Clay to escape his President's ire – it had all taken more out of Juice than he'd ever had in him to begin with.

He betrayed his club, killed a brother, killed a mother, and sold his soul to Jax in hopes of hanging on by the skin of his teeth. What would anyone else be, if not empty?

Shaking off the fog that clouded his head as best he could, he reminded himself where he was, reaching out to knock quietly on the door. He tightened the drawstring on his hooded sweatshirt and pushed his hands into his pockets, trying to give off something other than the mixture of nervousness and devastation he was sure played out on his face.

The door to the apartment swung open to reveal Delilah, grin plastered across her face. Her dark hair hung loose around her shoulders and her low cut top revealed an amount of skin that any other time would have undoubtedly drawn Juice's eye. He had known from the beginning that his heart just wasn't in getting off, but he'd decided to give Bobby's advice a go anyway. He knew fuck all else to do with himself.

"Hey Juicy," she greeted him warmly, stepping aside to allow him into her apartment. A nice place, decorated like a penthouse suite in a four seasons or something. He'd seen it a few times before, but he didn't exactly soak in the details on this particular visit. It had to be obvious to her that something was off with him, though he hoped his glassy, reddened eyes might lead her to the obvious conclusion that he was just high.

"What's up, Dee?" he asked awkwardly, lingering close by the door. It didn't matter how many times he'd done the same thing, he never knew the etiquette for visiting a working girl. Was he supposed to make small talk? Get right down to business? He was at a loss always, but especially now, when he wasn't even entirely sure he wanted to be there.

"I heard about Clay Morrow," she mentioned, circling around him to lock the door. She turned back, the corners of her lips tugged down in a halfhearted frown. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah," he murmured, eyes focusing on dark red carpet beneath his feet. He spaced for a moment, his eyes filling with unshed tears as thoughts of Clay's death, of being forced to cast a vote in favor of it, filled his head. He mentally kicked himself for being so weak, tearing up like a fucking pansy in front of this girl he was supposed to be getting laid by, and let out a humorless laugh. "M'sorry… I'm just high."

She nodded as though she understood, but the look on her face wasn't entirely convinced. Those damned doe eyes of hers were practically flooded with sympathy and the sight of it written so clear there made him shift his weight uncomfortably. That wasn't what he came there to get.

"Okay, so, you know the drill," she swiftly changed tack, most of her smile returning to her face as she took his hand and brushed her thumb across the back of it. "You want the legit massage first? Could probably use it, as tense as you've gotta be."

Maybe she was cutting him some slack, giving him an out so that he didn't have to admit that he wasn't sure he could get it going in the state that he was in. Maybe she really thought he looked tense and wanted to put that license in massage therapy to good use. Either way, he was grateful for the offer, and nodded in response.

"Yeah, sounds good," he muttered.

"Excellent. Second door on your right, if you didn't know it. I'll give you a minute to get undressed and all that," she offered politely, earning another nod from Juice.

He made his way to the room she'd indicated, though he'd already known where it was. Like the rest of the house, the décor was tasteful, expensive looking just from the looks of it. The walls were painted a deep burgundy color with some ambient lighting thrown in, a massage table in the center of it. There was a bathroom just off the main room where he'd always assumed he was meant to get changed, this time being no different.

Standing in that mirror at just that moment, however, everything seemed foreign. The familiar smell of jasmine and vanilla – just good smelling incense as far as Juice as concerned – was odd and overbearing, the soft lighting still too harsh as he looked on at his own reflection. Those damned skulls glowered back at him, permanent and forebodingly dark; _SON SHINE._

In that moment, he would've given anything to tear them away, to have never gotten them in the first place. He didn't want them, but more than that, he didn't deserve them. He didn't have the mindset to go through the complex emotions that tied into it all, his basic instincts boiling it down until what he felt was something he could understand:

_Fear._

It may have looked like disgust at first, maybe even regret, but at the root of all things was fear. Of being a fuck up, of being a killer, of being everything that he had become in order to preserve himself. Fear of waking up in the morning and feeling the same loathing he felt at that instant when he looked in the mirror, fear of losing the only family he'd ever known, and fear of being trapped within it for the rest of his life.

Though the emotion was easy enough to name, it was infinitely more difficult to process. He'd never been allowed to show apprehension, never been afforded the luxury of a momentary weakness. There was no room for it in the world he'd made himself a part of.

Fear led to panic, and panic made you stupid.

Though he knew that lesson inside and out, he couldn't stop himself from providing a brilliant example of it. His chest was tight and his heart was thrumming wildly as the first waves of alarm began to grip him tight. The stifling anxiety was choking him, leaving him like a dog on a short chain, before a solution suddenly came to mind – the pills in his pocket.

Oxycodone, eighty milligram tabs. He had six of them, still in their blister packs. Even Juice wasn't entirely clear what he was thinking or hoping for when he decided to pop all six pills. Maybe he just wanted to get a buzz on, as he would later tell everyone. Maybe he truly didn't care if he ever woke up.

In reality, it was probably a toxic mixture of both, no other logical explanation behind dropping enough Oxy to level a junkie. Regardless of his motivation, all six tabs went down easily enough, helped along by a generous swallow of tequila from the flask in his pocket.

From there, it was only a waiting game.

He undressed as he had been instructed to do, shedding his clothes and folding them neatly as he was always prone to doing. He lay face down on the table and for a moment, he held his breath. His imagination told him that he could already feel the heavy dosage of opiates beginning to take hold, but his gut told him it was bullshit; he'd have a few minutes at least before he felt even the softest touch of the fog that was bound to set in.

Minutes he wouldn't be spending alone he realized as the Delilah made her way into the room.

"Sorry about the rough day, baby," she murmured with her back to him, selecting some sort of essential oil to start the massage with. It may've been little more than a cover, but he remembered her telling him once that massage therapy was actually what she'd gone to school for. For reasons he didn't ask about, reasons that didn't concern him, the money hadn't been good enough to cut it, and a window of opportunity for a side business had opened up. Still, the girl knew her shit when it came to massage.

"Hm? Oh, yeah," came his only response. If he tried to talk about it again, he was bound to tear up all over again, too. The whole thing would've been a waste of time at that point; there was no way he'd be able to get it up while picturing her seeing him cry like a baby.

"We'll take care of that," she assured him with a giggle, beginning to work on the tense knots that crowded the muscles of his shoulders and neck. Her words would have been a little more comforting if they didn't sound so scripted, like lines from a bad porno, or something.

He guessed he was being a little overly critical, though; she had to have something to say to every guy who came in a little tense. He reminded himself that he wasn't paying for conversation, in the first place.

As she slowly unwound the knots in his shoulders and moved down his back, he began to feel the effect of the pills he'd popped. Just a whisper at first, nothing he could be sure was anything other than his imagination, but the feeling intensified quickly. There was a rush of warmth that started at the crown of his head and turned to fire by the time it reached his feet, effectively blotting out every thought as it coursed through his body.

He groaned at the pleasure of the feeling as well as a particularly sore spot on his lower back receiving attention, the act of keeping his eyes open steadily growing more difficult. The edges of his vision started to go blurry and dark, his entire body floating.

"Time to turn over, baby," a soft voice purred in his ear. What had she said? He couldn't quite make it out clearly as the voice sounded far away, like talking underwater, but he took his best guess at it and tried to maneuver himself over from lying facedown.

The last thing he remembered was the feeling of falling.

* * *

**Author's note:  
**  
So, what did you think? I've got another chapter ready to go up with this, as this is just sort of a recap of how the story's plot differs from the original episode so that we can get set up. I've been through multiple rewrites of this story and this chapter alone before deciding it was ready to be posted for you guys, so please do let me know what you liked, didn't like, would like to see happen, etc.!


	2. Sympathy for the Devil

**Chapter 02:  
**_Sympathy for the Devil_

* * *

Well, she hadn't been expecting _that._

Juice hadn't been much for conversation since the moment he strolled in the door, his mind clearly somewhere else entirely. It made a little more sense when he'd admitted to her that he was stoned but it wasn't as though that explained away all the odd behavior entirely. His red eyes and glassy gaze had tipped her off that he'd been smoking. That much wasn't atypical for the guy she'd come to know. A few tokes had also never put anyone out cold on the ground in her experience.

Up until he was lying in his boxers, facedown on the floor, she'd considered whatever he did none of her business. They had a friendly repertoire between them but they weren't exactly the closest of friends when she wasn't getting paid for their time together. She liked Juice well enough, but she was a masseuse and part time whore, not a therapist. It dawned on her in that moment that she was also extremely unqualified to act as a nurse, but she honestly had little choice.

"Shit. _Shit_," she muttered under her breath, rolling him to his side as best she could. He wasn't a small guy, and though she was no dainty thing herself, she was vastly outweighed by the slack deadweight of his unconscious body. She lifted his eyelids to see his eyes lolling back and forth, the pupils a mere pinprick in the surrounding irises.

"Oh, you idiot," she growled, her heart racing with panic. She didn't need this sort of attention brought to her establishment, and she knew better than to dial up an ambulance for a member of the MC. She had no idea what he was running from with that devastated look on his face when he'd arrived, but she wasn't going to be the one responsible for letting it catch up with him. She'd worked too hard to build a life in Charming to be that stupid about maintaining it.

She immediately went to the bathroom, rifling through the pockets of his jeans. They were empty, save a wallet and a Bic lighter. Her next guess was the trashcan, where she struck paydirt. Three blister packs, all empty. Studying the back of one of them, she swore again under her breath. Oxycodone, eighty milligram tabs, and from the looks of it, he'd taken all six.

A sick feeling brewed in the pit of her stomach, and for once, she was grateful for her experience with overdoses. Her brother, Pockets, had gotten into drugs with a lustful fervor once upon a time. Towards the end of his life, pills had become a reluctant favorite, the easiest high to get his hands on. Given that the two kids had no one but each other, it was a fairly obvious choice as to who had been the one to take care of him while he pissed his life away for those last three years.

Pushing away the urge to reminisce bitterly, she returned her attention to Juice. Pulling the wastebasket over to where he lay, she struggled to get him sitting up. She tried not to think about what she had to do next, knowing how unpleasant it was for both parties involved.

"Hey, hey. Stay with me, okay?" she ordered, supporting his lolling head. She braced herself and sighed. "And don't you dare bite me."

With that, she pressed her index and middle finger deep into his throat, triggering his gag reflex. With no trouble, the contents of his stomach came up, hopefully including the pills. She did her best not to think about his vomit covering her hand, simply continuing to mutter reassuringly to him as she forced him to purge.

A quick rundown of mental math left her with the calculation that he'd taken almost five hundred milligrams of Oxy, more than enough to put a guy his size in the ground. Pockets hadn't been a much bigger guy, and it wasn't much less than what had taken him out in the end. She didn't allow herself to linger on that though, stopping the train of thought quickly. If she felt anything emotional tied to the scene unfolding before her, she swallowed it back immediately. She chose to focus on the fact that a dead client in her home meant investigation, and given the way the boys in blue seemed to work in that town, it was more stress than she needed.

After a while, when she was sure Juice had emptied his stomach as much as he could just then, she left his side momentarily. She went into the bathroom and filled a glass with water, wetting down a cloth while she was there.

She wasn't surprised to find him still out of it when she returned. Vomiting would _likely_ help him live through it, but it was still going to be a hell of a night for both of them. She dabbed the towel against the sweat beading on his forehead, pooling in the hollows of his collarbone, and tilted his head back to help him drink. She couldn't have him losing so much fluid without making an effort to replace any of it, and truthfully, the whole experience would only be worse on him if he continued to heave with an entirely empty stomach.

"C'mon, Juice. Drink, baby," she coaxed him gently as he tried to turn his head away. Though her voice was sweet, she had very little patience for any resistance in their current situation. She had long ago gotten over the pang of fear that was supposed to accompany seeing someone close to you in such a state, and she had loved Pockets fiercely. The fact that she barely knew Juice did not increase her patience.

"We need to get you someplace else, okay?" she insisted, unsure how she'd manage to transport the full weight of him anywhere else in the house. She wasn't shocked when he made no verbal response, though she was slightly more irritated. Standing, she attempted to haul him to his feet, only to have him crash back down. His legs were limp and useless beneath his weight, the same weight she was expecting herself to shoulder.

Starting lower this time and draping one of his arms across her shoulder, she grunted as she struggled to get him to his feet. He was taller and heavier than she was, but striking the right balance, she found she was able to keep him from immediately collapsing to the floor. Every step she took was a monumental effort and their progress was extremely slow, but eventually, she managed to drag him into the bedroom out of sheer necessity. The couch was even further away, and while she could wash her sheets, the thought of vomit staining her upholstery made her shudder.

Panting after finally rolling him into the bed, she took a moment to stretch her back. It screamed under the exertion she'd put it through, but she'd had little choice. She moved into the bathroom off the bedroom and retrieved yet another wastebasket, grimacing at the thought of how much vomit she'd be responsible for disposing of when they were finally in the clear.

_If_, her pessimistic side corrected her. _If_ Juice pulled through alright.

She tried to push away those thoughts and move forward with what she needed to do, placing the wastebasket at the ready and retrieving another glass of water. She knew a great deal of what happened next would be up to fate, but that didn't mean she was ready to throw in the towel.

"You still need to drink," she muttered, climbing onto the bed next to him and tilting his head back to pour more water down his throat.

She couldn't avoid thinking about what a mess he was, sweating and retching. It stood in direct contrast to the almost peaceful look on his face in the momentary lull in nausea, the slackened appearance of his muscles under his skin. If the situation were not so familiar and haunting, he would look docile rather than horrifying.

It was a wash, rinse, repeat cycle for what seemed like an eternity. He'd vomit, she'd towel him off, then force him to drink more water. Afterwards, he'd pass back out into something more like a miniature coma than sleep, and she'd monitor his breathing. It took a couple of hours before he started to come around in the slightest, his eyes fluttering open, although he appeared to have no say in how they focused.

"Hey. _Hey_, Juice," she called, slapping his cheek gently but firmly as she spoke, trying to seize the moment and keep him awake. "Juicy. You coming around? I need you to wake up, baby."

"Mm," he hummed miserably in response, trying to turn his head away from her hand.

"No, no. You're gonna wake up, now. C'mon, let's get you sitting," she insisted, struggling to pull him upright against the stack of pillows that made an incline behind his back. He was still too limp to fight her off, his body a compliant pool of putty. She shook him as he dozed. "Do you know where you are, Juicy?"

"M'sorry," he slurred, shaking his head.

"Yeah, yeah. I know. It's okay, baby," she placated him easily. She'd make sure she got a real apology when his brain was functioning again, later.

"I didn't wanna do it," he continued. She started to say something dismissive again, only to be cut off by his garbled voice. "Jax said it was what I _had_ to do. Earn my way."

Shit. The last thing she needed was to hear him talk about anything that even remotely resembled club business. The task of knowing more than she was supposed to was bigger than she was, especially given she wasn't even slightly interested in the affairs of the Sons. She had to keep him talking, but not about _that_.

"You don't know what you're saying right now," she explained, wondering why she was attempting to be so logical with someone who clearly wasn't there. "Talking's good, though. Let's keep you talking."

"She was so pretty. And so sad," he moaned, tears squeezing from the corners of his eyes as he screwed them shut. Nothing he was saying made any sense to Delilah and truthfully, she was grateful for that. She had learned a long time beforehand that in the business she'd involved herself in, curiosity was likely to quite literally kill the cat.

"Keep your eyes open for me, hon," she said, her usage of endearing pet names a stark contrast to the almost maternal tone she was using. "We gotta keep you up and going now, okay? You took a lot of Oxy tonight, Juice. Too much."

She could see the effort in his features as he fought to keep his brown eyes from shutting or rolling skyward, attempting to listen to her. Tears still swam there, mostly unshed but quickly becoming too much to keep from spilling over.

"That was the plan."

His voice had been so frank and raw with the admission that for a moment, Delilah felt her mask slip. She knew better than to put absolute faith in anything he said in his current state, but it was difficult not to be somewhat shaken by those words. He'd meant to take too much, known what he was doing. Perhaps later she could feel some sense of anger at being put in the crosshairs of his mess intentionally, but there was a pull at her heartstrings stronger than that aggravation just then.

The moment that she'd spent just staring blankly at him had been enough for him to begin drifting again, her focus sharpening once more as his head began to droop. A hand under his chin, she lifted his face level with hers and shook her head.

"C'mon, Juicy. Stay awake for me," she warned him, snapping the fingers of her free hand together next to his ear. He registered the sound, his eyes lazily opening.

"You're pretty like she was. But not sad," he slurred. She knew he was trying to focus, but dealing with people in his condition was always frustrating. She already felt like a broken record, and she knew without a doubt that there was still miles of woods ahead of them before they were in the clear.

"I'm not sad," she agreed with a short nod, running her thumb across his jaw. "Just scared. Worried about you, right now."

He laughed humorlessly, the sound thick and distorted.

"Nobody worries about me. Not worth it."

She worked diligently put aside her blind rage for the junkie 'why me?' bullshit, attempting to remind herself that Juice wasn't one of them. There was something else entirely going on in the moment, though it seemed so familiar. She'd been gentle with Pockets as she was then being with Juice in the beginning, though after it became commonplace for her to sit with him that way, she'd gotten much less kind about it. There had been no whispered words of comfort for her brother towards the end, no gentle touches or false patience; she'd taken care of him of course, but the kiddy gloves she now donned for Juice's benefit had come off long before she lost her brother.

"Tell me something," she changed track seamlessly, knowing he wouldn't spot the quick transition. She wracked her brain for a question, one that wouldn't give her any information which might come back to bite her in the ass later. "What's your real name?"

"Juan Carlos," he droned, his mouth dry by the sounds of it. She lifted another sip of water to his lips, pondering the new information.

"How'd you get Juice out of that?" she asked. She was genuinely curious, but at that moment, it was about keeping him tuned in and talking.

"Juan Carlos, J.C., Juicy," he muttered as though it were an entirely adequate explanation, despite giving away no real clues.

"Hm. Cool," she responded with disinterest she knew he was in no shape to pick up on. She'd hoped that would be the hook that got him talking, but she'd apparently misjudged that."Your turn, big boy. Ask me something."

He blinked a few times, still working on steadying his line of vision against his eyes' will to roll to the back of his head. It took a moment, but she watched as he worked out the kinks in his gaze eventually, focusing it on her own. She bit her lip to keep from flooding with too much pity at what she saw there – those damned childlike eyes wide and glassy, so full of obvious pain even with pupils like a pinprick in the center.

"You gonna stay here with me?" he finally asked. She swallowed against a lump in her throat at the question, feeling the recognizable – and frankly, disgusting – swell of sympathy that accompanied his teary eyed demeanor.

"Y-yeah. M'right here, not going anywhere," she answered, furious with herself for allowing so many memories to be conjured up by someone who was so much unlike her brother. Perhaps that was what brought back the familiar sting of it all; Juice wasn't Pockets. He was a Son, the prototype of a tough guy, always respectful whenever she'd entertained him. He wasn't the sort of guy she'd imagined could have that type of fear and pain in his eyes, not the type of guy she'd guessed would try to end himself in her home.

"Good. Don't wanna be alone right now," he explained, eyes fluttering again.

They went on to talk about a litany of nonsensical things, a conversational pattern of her asking a random question and him giving a short answer falling into place. Over the next hour or so, she learned his favorite color, his birthdate, his favorite movie, asked about the pain level of the tribal tattoos that adorned his skull, and a host of other topical trivia on the Sons' Intelligence Officer. He managed to keep most of his responses clean and safe, aside from the occasional bemoaning of whatever it was Jax had insisted he do. She cut the subject off quickly all three times it came up, staunchly standing by her decision that whatever it was, she really didn't want to know.

"Finish this and you can rest a while," she bargained, indicating the glass of water in her hand as she raised it to his lips.. He'd vomited enough and drank enough that she wasn't overly concerned. His skin was the same hue she was accustomed to seeing it, no tinge of blue or sickly green, and he seemed to be set as far as breathing on his own was concerned. The critical window seemed to have passed, and though she was keeping her fingers crossed, he seemed to have made it to the other side of danger.

"Thanks for stayin'," he spoke, his voice still hazy though more easily understood.

She nodded, allowing him to move closer to her in the bed in the clumsy roll he made towards her. The intimacy of holding a client this way rather than the usual arrangement was not lost on her, nor was the irony of the discomfort it made her feel. Somehow, allowing Juice to tear up on her shoulder and press his face into the crook of her neck was far more personal than the litany of other things she had done with the very same man.

Still, she didn't have it in her to push him away at that moment. He wasn't pawing at her or faking his emotions for sympathy. In fact, she was dead positive that he'd never resort to waterworks or even allow her to see them if he hadn't been in such an altered state. He was like a broken child, as unflattering as the depiction of him may have been, and that sight drew out a little empathy in the normally levelheaded girl.

"Mmhm," she hummed in reply for lack of anything else to say, idly running her fingertips along the outline of the tattoo on his skull.

She knew without question that the situation was likely to get awkward quickly when he woke up, and it wasn't as though she would be able to sleep, herself. Not with someone else in her bed and not when she was still concerned for his breathing. She laid awake while he dozed, contemplating a number of things. The fact that there was no way she could charge him hourly for the entire time he'd been there that evening. That she knew he'd done what he did purposefully. Whether or not it had anything to do with the loss of Clay Morrow…

How absolutely inappropriate she'd been by allowing herself to feel this level of sympathy for him.

* * *

**Author's note:**

See? It's like I said: two chapters for the price of one, to get things moving along. There will be more dialogue in later chapters, but given that it's only Dee and Juice in this scene, and one of them is zonked on opiates, it's a little difficult to craft meaningful conversation between the two. Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts on the story so far.

I'd also like to get a little soapbox-y and mention that although it worked in television and was re-purposed here in the story, vomiting is not a reliable method for curbing an overdose and prescription painkillers are a very dangerous, addictive substance to abuse. In reality, it's extremely possible that Juice would have died from the amount of Oxycodone he consumed, even with the preventative measures taken. Be smart, don't play with that stuff. xoxo


	3. Good Samaritan

**Chapter 03:**  
_Good Samaritan_

* * *

The first thing that registered with Juice when his eyes opened was the taste of sick in his mouth.

His head felt like a cement block, heavy and thick with fog, and his throat ached. He could put two and two together well enough to know it was likely from vomiting, given the foul taste he'd been greeted with.

What he couldn't Sherlock Holmes his way out of was figuring out where he was, exactly. The room around him was painted a light grey color that matched the silky sheets beneath his fingertips, the walls decorated with weird abstract art. He didn't recognize the room from the night before – or any other night, for that matter – let alone did he know why he was lying there in his boxers, alone.

Slowly, the scene came into focus. Delilah, the oxy, all of it. _Shit_.

He dragged his hands over his face with a groan, trying to piece together the fragments of the previous night. He remembered talking to her, talking far too much, and though he was still hoping beyond hope that it was a figment of his imagination, he could swear he even remembered crying. Judging by the small portion he did remember, he could make a fairly educated guess that things were the definition of not good.

"You're awake," her voice interrupted his thoughts, drawing his eyes to where she stood in the doorway. He couldn't help the panicked look that donned on him at the sight of her. "I just went to make some tea," she motioned with the cup in her hand.

"Uh… yeah," he answered with a nod, ducking his head. "What time is it?"

The last thing he wanted at the moment was a conversation about all that had happened, but it seemed fairly certain that she wouldn't just pretend everything had simply been the norm. That was about as unlikely as any stupid hope he'd ever had about anything else.

"Early. A little after six," she answered with a yawn, taking a seat on the edge of the bed next to him.

"Shit," he cursed, running his hands over the prickly stubble that grew to either side of his mohawk. His eyes cut back up to Delilah and he frowned; it didn't seem as though she was even trying to conceal the worry etched on her features, made more apparent by the dark circles under her eyes. It didn't look like she'd slept at all that night.

"How long was I out?" he asked, shame apparent in his voice.

"You got here around five last night, shit went south not long after that," she answered with a shrug, blowing on her steaming cup of tea. "You stopped puking around midnight, I let you get some sleep around one thirty or so."

As if he needed anything else to feel guilty about, there was now this to consider. He'd made a fool of himself, giving a little more credence to everyone's favorite idea that he was some sort of bumbling idiot, and judging by the freeze coming off of Delilah, it had been pretty damned stupid.

"What do I owe ya?" he muttered, standing up to pull on the jeans that were folded on the beside table. If he had to feel this low, he didn't have to do it basically naked. He opened his wallet and checked his cash supply, knowing that he obviously owed her more than the four hundred dollars he was carrying for fourteen some odd hours of care.

"An explanation would be nice," she shot back tersely. "You can't _afford_ to pay off last night. Trust me on that one."

He winced; so it really had been that bad. Of course he'd known that she'd want some sort of enlightenment on the details of why things had gone down the way the had. He wasn't stupid enough to think he'd get out of there without saying something, though he was still currently at a loss as to what to tell her.

"I dropped a little too much Oxy," he replied, face hardening into a stoic mask. He knew the truth behind that lie.

The important part was getting her to buy it. If he couldn't even convince someone he didn't know all that well that he was singing the gospel, he knew he'd fold instantly with anyone close to him.

"No shit, you took too much. Six of 'em. Four hundred and eighty milligrams, Juice," she accused, clearly not buying what he was selling. Maybe she wasn't stupid, either.

"My mistake. I was just trying to get a buzz on, and I might've misjudged it a little," he explained. He was clinging to the tough guy angle, hoping she'd just drop it, let him pay up, and move on with her day.

"Oh, bullshit," she said with a scowl, setting her tea down before standing close to him, arms crossed. "Sell that idea wherever else you can, but that's _bullshit_, and we both know it. You said it yourself last night."

"Said what, exactly?" he asked, nervous. He had to wonder how much she'd heard while he was there, a sick feeling churning in his stomach. If he'd spoken too freely, he knew it would have been his own fault, but the result would be the same. He could only hope he hadn't made Delilah into a liability to the club or himself after how nice she'd been to take care of him like that.

"That you _meant_ to do it. That you took too many on purpose," she said, anger ebbing just slightly. "Said a lot of other shit, too. Nothing important, from what I could tell."

"You're tellin' me the truth, right?" he asked, wishing his voice held the same command for authority and fear as many of his brothers'. There was very little threat behind the tone he'd used, which had been more of a plea.

"You didn't say anything that'll get you in trouble. Mostly because _I_ stopped you, but either way," she reassured him, seeming to see the worry on his face. "But there's still the tiny detail of you OD-ing in my house, telling me it was no accident. That we gotta deal with."

"Listen, Dee, I appreciate what you did," he said, opening his arms in a shrug, "but we got nothin' to talk about there. M'sorry things got crazy, and I'm trying to pay up for it, but you really don't need to worry about it."

He watched a flash of anger run through the green of her eyes, though she remained otherwise still. He knew that every word out of his mouth was petty and probably sounded pretty arrogant, but this was the way it had to be.

And as difficult as it was, he was attempting to convince himself of a few things – he didn't know her all that well. She was just a girl who he paid to entertain him from time to time, the same as she did with other dudes. They didn't exactly hang out and chat afterwards, even. His life and whatever he did with it was none of her business, and he'd never paid her to befriend him.

"You've gotta be kidding me," she muttered with a sneer, looking at him like he was every bit the scum he felt like. "Okay, tough guy, let's do the math. You have fourteen hundred in there for the basic hourly? Oh, and then I'd say another hundred, hundred twenty an hour for keeping you breathing, catching your puke, all of that. Then we've got the six hours or so I kept you talking, held you, listened to you cry, and I'll have to take out a fee for missed business, too…"

"Okay, I got it," he cut her off in annoyance, his eyes shifting away from hers in a mixture of embarrassment and irritation. He supposed it was a little presumptuous to think that a measly four hundred dollars would be enough to cover everything she'd done for him, but he hadn't exactly counted on it being some slight to her honor or something.

"I don't know what you want, then," he scoffed, his turn to cross his arms defensively. "If you're not gonna let me pay you, that's on you. But I'm not just going to sit here and get lectured or whatever this is. So, thanks for your help, but wouldja just let it go?"

She seemed to be at war with what to do with his answer, leaving him satisfied for the moment. He was grateful what she'd done for him, understood what sort of strife it had to have caused her, but that didn't mean he was going to pour his heart out to her. As far as he was able to feel from the sunken weight in his chest, there was nothing there in the first place.

Even if he wanted to – even if there was some part of him that was desperate for someone to listen – there was next to nothing he could say without shifting the weight of his shoulders to hers, this girl who was just trying to make a living like anybody else. One word of anything that was eating him alive, and she knew just enough to put her in danger. She'd been smart enough to know as much when she'd cut him off the night before, apparently. To think of hurting yet _another _innocent person was just more guilt than he needed to tack onto himself at the moment.

* * *

She tried to resist the urge to sock him in the jaw, her hand tensed into a fist at her side.

His audacity as he sat there telling her not to concern herself with it, crossing his arms and jutting out his chin at her like some sort of idiot punk… It was maddening. She understood his reluctance to talk about what he had done, but the way he was going about it was plainly wrong in her book, triggering a sense of entitlement in Delilah that she couldn't quite account for.

She shifted her weight as she scrutinized him, waiting for him to break the charade, though he never flinched. His eyes were still held the same sad tinge to them, but that emotion didn't seep into the rest of his expression which still held firm. He'd probably been well trained to deal with high pressure situations, better so than she had anyway.

Perhaps she needed to switch tact.

"I don't know what had you so fucked up that eating a handful of Oxy seemed like the best way out, and I don't _wanna_ know. The shit you guys get into, that's your thing," she conceded, her hands going up in a gesture of surrender. "That's not what I'm on about. You've been comin' around here for a while now and you're not exactly a perfect stranger, so when you decide to try your hand at dying in _my_ house, I can't pretend it doesn't bother me."

She took a calming breath, willing herself to shed a little of the anger that was clearly putting him on defense. Stiffly, she resumed her seat next to him before speaking again.

"Call me a nosy whore if it helps you sleep at night, but I mean, _c'mon_, Juice. Don't act like this sorta thing just happens everyday."

"Whoa. I didn't call you a –"

"I know, I know. But I'm serious. Don't put this on me and then think you can just walk out with some bullshit about catching a buzz. That's weak."

He seemed to relax, if only slightly, as he studied her face with suspicion.

"Why do you even care?" he finally asked. His tone was quieter then that it had been minutes before.

She sighed. That was more complicated than she wanted to get into. She rarely spoke about her brother, most people in Charming unaware she even had one. That part of her life had been left behind in Olympia, pushed out when she'd left the great state of Washington. Aside from that, she wasn't entirely sure how to explain to Juice or even to herself why she'd allowed herself to feel any sympathy for him, least of all why she'd gone to such great lengths to take care of him. She was supposed to be stronger than that, colder than that. It was a necessity of her job.

"Is it that surprising that I give a damn?" she countered, shrugging. It was easier to skirt the question's true answers than to try and make sense of them. "Knew someone that OD'ed once. It wasn't pretty. And I guess I kinda know you, so it makes sense that it would bother me a little. Even people who do what I do have some kind of a heart."

He hummed lightly in response, his eyes studying the patterns on the silk sheets beneath him. She took the opportunity to study him unfettered, wondering if she was getting through to him at all. He wasn't exactly the easiest read when he was sober, she was discovering.

"I said m'sorry, Dee. What else can I do?" he asked, still not meeting her eyes.

"Stop trying to pay me off, for one," she listed. It was easier to feel confident and in control of the situation when he wasn't putting up so much stubborn resistance. "And… I dunno. Don't do that shit again. Call somebody, talk to somebody. Something."

He laughed, the same mirthless chuckle he had the night before and shook his head. He made no effort to speak, but his sentiment was pretty clear – he didn't have anyone to call.

"Whatever's going on, it can't be that bad. Nothing's that bad," she spoke what she considered to be a resolute truth. "But if it's getting that heavy on you and you got nobody else, I guess you can call me. It's not like you don't have my number on speed dial."

He seemed confused until his eyes met hers, a small smile playing on her lips to accompany her teasing. She couldn't find it in herself to let the situation play out as heavy as it really was, knowing how uncomfortable that would be for both of them. She wanted him to know that there was always someone to turn to, always some other way than to go down that road, and she guessed if she was the only person available for him to vent to, she didn't have much choice in taking the position.

However cold it may have been, she hoped that maybe just the offer would be enough to bolster his feeling of a safety net, no work necessary on her part.

"Speed dial," he repeated with a roll of his eyes, a faint hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth but never quite making it in earnest. "Right. So all of this, it's just you protecting your investment, right? Keeping your customers loyal?"

"Don't kid yourself, Juicy. Customers in Charming are a dime a dozen," she answered. As they were only teasing, she didn't think much about the fact that her words were not entirely true. With Diosa and another whorehouse opening up in Stockton, business hadn't been great. She'd had more legitimate massage appointments than those desiring her other services, but there was no reason to let on to as much.

"So what is it then?" he asked. There was a little too much smoothness in his voice, some too cool demeanor that didn't jive with the bleak look to his eyes. It made Delilah uncomfortable, although she didn't outright show it. On the clock, she knew what men liked to hear – baby this, sweetie that, pet names and terms of endearment. She knew how to flirt for pay, but that didn't mean it was her style when she wasn't trying to earn a paycheck, and she was entirely sure the situation at hand was gravely inappropriate for it.

"It's keepin' somebody from making the same asinine mistakes I've already seen," she admitted. There was more honesty in that statement than she liked to admit. "Giving you somebody to call so you can't ever say _nobody_ would've talked it out with you."

"Right," he said on a nod, seeming to take the change in tone fairly well. He pulled out his personal phone – one of those Smartphones so large it almost appeared to be a small tablet – and scrolled through for something or another. He held it up to her to reveal her contact information, a number saved simply under 'Dee'. "So's this your business line?"

She bit her lip in thought for a moment before deciding that she'd already made more than a few inappropriate decisions, crossed more than her fair share of boundaries. One more wasn't going to make much of a difference at that point.

She took the phone from him, hitting the plus sign on her contact card and adding another number before handing it back to him.

"There." Her sulky tone accompanied a roll of her eyes. "Wear that number out and I swear to God…"

He shook his head as if to say he wouldn't, studying the data she'd added before putting his phone away. After that, they sat in silence for few long moments. Neither of them seemed to know what to say next.

"Can I use your shower before I get outta here?" he asked hesitantly.

She supposed it was the least audacious of all the things he'd required of her since he'd shown up and answered with a nod. To be frank, he didn't look or smell like a bed of roses after the night he'd had.

"Make it quick. I have stuff I have to get to today," she said. Honestly, the only thing she could see herself accomplishing was sleep and even that would have to wait until she changed her sheets. Sympathetic or not, she wasn't keen on the idea of sleeping in a bed that smelled like sweat, vomit, and Juice's cologne.

"I'll be outta here in fifteen, twenty tops," he promised, mirroring her nod.

It wasn't much over his estimate when he emerged from the back of her apartment dressed in the clothing he'd arrived in. His hands were in his pockets and his gaze was aimed off of her eyes, but he did look like the shower had helped.

"Feel better?" she asked.

"A little," he answered, lingering by the door. She rose from her perch on the couch to meet him there and show him out. "Thanks for… y'know. Everything. If I didn't already say it, I mean."

"Yeah." There wasn't much else to say on that particular subject without rehashing her irritation with him. She shifted her weight awkwardly, opening the door for him. "Just don't forget you've got my number. If you need it, use it."

"Definitely," he answered, bobbing his head and rubbing a hand over the back of it. "I will."

"Take care of yourself, Juice," she murmured, giving his arm a light squeeze as he stepped outside into the early hours of daylight. The sun was just beginning to turn the sky pink as it rose into full view, the sight somehow making Delilah that much more tired in knowing that she'd still not slept.

His smile was sad as he turned to leave. She watched him disappear down the steps that led to the first floor and the parking lot, then mount his bike and turn out.

Leaning against the door, she had thoughts that were uncomfortable similar to those she'd had the evening before – wondering why she'd allowed herself to be at all moved by the situation. She'd broken the first two or three chapters worth of rules in the game, starting with allowing him in high and ending with giving him her personal number. And for what? To give some mixed up kid from a gangbanging MC a little bit of a support network.

She couldn't help wondering how stupid she was really capable of being.

She sighed and pushed away from the doorjamb; she'd have plenty of time to consider her actions whenever she finally woke up. At that moment, all she wanted was to finally _sleep_.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

So, what do you guys think so far? I'm doing my best to make sure it's clear that Delilah isn't some cold hearted working girl, but that she's also not crazy about the idea of putting herself out there so much for a guy like Juice. Hopefully the balance is conveyed well in the story. That, and there was a total blank space between Juice coming around in S6E12 and when he was fine in E13 that I wanted to fill in. Do you like it, hate it, want to see more?


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